


In Nomine Fisher

by QuailiTea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Exorcisms, Gen, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Not Actually All That Scary, Think Ghostbusters not Poltergeist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:59:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuailiTea/pseuds/QuailiTea
Summary: So suppose Jack, instead of the Police, went into the Church. He'd need a good reason, of course. Ghosts are a good one. He chooses to exercise his considerable powers of authority over the dead, instead of the living. Phryne has a good reason too, since she's still on the hunt for her sister, unsure if she's alive or dead. The rest of the universe has adjusted accordingly.





	1. Chapter 1

Jack Robinson lived in a world peopled with demons. Some of them were figurative. Some of them, like the one he was staring at right now, which was rattling the surface of the mirror in which it was trapped, were quite literal. He smirked, just slightly, as the spectral haunt bared teeth and fangs at his collar and the silver cross in his right hand. He had read the creature the rites. Time to lock it away. With a final sprinkle of holy water over the hand mirror, the demonic thing shrank back until he could safely grasp its prison and hurl it to the ground with a smash. Then, and only then, did he turn back to the frightened parishioners who had called in one of Melbourne’s few, but most successful exorcists, and give them a businesslike nod. “It’s gone. Your home is safe now,” he said. The spirit that had been infesting the walls and windows of this run-down flat, centering its attention on the ceramic urn the inhabitants had been using as a wash pitcher, was now safely locked away, and he was preparing to throw away the key. Carefully, meticulously, he began packing up his kit. Salt. Incense. Phial of holy water, mostly unused. Cross in its red velvet case. Bible carefully tied together with silver cord. His stole, rolled neatly like a bandage. The homeowners watched him in reverent silence, pausing only to hand him a casket they had filled with the shards and frame of the broken mirror, buried in consecrated earth and sprinkled with more salt. He packed that away too – he had plenty of safe places to bury the rubbish and keep the minion away from the Earth. Overall, a successful job. He made his way out the door and began down the creaking stairs, hearing the sounds of their neighbors beginning to stream into their flat once more, now that the previous resident had been officially evicted.

It was not a well-off part of town, but they had still insisted on paying him something, which rankled a bit. He didn’t think it was right to take money from desperate people – it was the Church that paid his wages. But salt wasn’t terribly expensive, and it had been an easy exorcism, if such a thing existed. He shrugged his shoulders, mostly satisfied, and was about to take the turn for the third staircase when the smell of sage drifted across his nose. _Smudging? Odd._ Curiously, he poked his head around the corridor wall, wondering where such a thing would be coming from. The scent was stronger this direction, and as he walked, he was beginning to hear banging and a strange rushing of trapped wind. Then, a teakettle whistle, and a female voice speaking. As he reached the door and lifted his hand to knock, everything fell silent. Then, there was a sudden roar and a woman's shout. The door crashed open into his head, and everything went black.

The first thing Miss Fisher noticed, once she had gotten the ghost back under control and managed to get the person out from under the door, was that the man she had rescued was a priest. The second thing she noticed was that he was remarkably good-looking – that collar did wonders for his cheekbones, and his black smock contrasted nicely with the curly brown hair that had come unslicked when the spirit had attempted to escape by blowing the flat door off its hinges. She’d had the foresight to place a few spirit bottles at the threshold, so the only real damage had been the poor man’s head. “Dot!” she called over her shoulder. “Make a note – the spirit bottles with poppyseeds worked as repellants, but they were not able to capture this one while it was angry.” Carefully, she probed the man’s hairline, looking to see if there was anything to the blood seeping from under his hairline. It was a minor cut though, nothing more. A few gentle presses with her neatly-manicured nails drew a groan and a flicker of lovely eyelashes from the man, and a few moments later, his eyes opened and uncrossed. “Are you awake? Can you hear me?” She searched his face carefully, wondering if the spirit might have splintered into him (unlikely, but possible). But his gray eyes focused on her face, then narrowed as he came aware of where he was.

“Who are you, and what just happened,” he demanded, struggling to focus. Phryne fought an inappropriate chuckle. She did like a man who cut to the chase.

“I’m very sorry Father, you were assaulted by a ghost that I was in the process of capturing.” She smiled at him winsomely, hoping he wouldn’t be too angry about the bump on his head. And indeed, he did soften slightly, for a moment. Then his brows knit again.

“Another spirit here? Not related to the one I just evicted, I hope.” She sat back on her heels and helped him to sit up, through he waved her hands away as she attempted to straighten his cassock. _Pity_ “And what do you mean, that you were in the process of capturing?”

“Just as I said,” she replied, with a gesture behind her. For the first time, he took stock of the flat where they were sitting, and realized its shabby walls were festooned with all manner of demon/ghost/spirit/faery-detecting-and-catching paraphernalia, seeming to have their source in a large trunk in the center of the room, surrounded with a salt ring and bearing the name Hon. Phryne Fisher. The few sticks of furniture in the room held more spirit bottles, candles, inscribed wax tablets, various bundles of plant life, and other, less-identifiable odds and ends. “I’m a paranormal investigator. Just arrived from England a few weeks ago. I barely had time to get my things out of shipment and into my new house before I became thoroughly embroiled in the spirit world around here. Nobody mentioned the absolute profusion of spectral entities – if Mac had, I would most certainly have come back sooner.”

“And this demon, is it still loose in here?” He was still feeling a little woozy, but if he was going to have to get out the cross and incense again, better do it quickly.

“Ghost, not demon, and no, it’s safely away,” she replied, standing up and offering him a hand. He took it and stood, clearly still dubious, but relieved. “I made extensive notes before I started the capture process, but of course, I’m still refining my methods. You’re Father Robinson, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. His head was aching, his eyes were squinting reflexively at the light, and he wasn’t sure he trusted that this strange woman knew what she was doing. He didn’t like it when amateurs tried to dabble in his line of work. They tended to get hurt. Or, he amended, finding another drop of blood on his fingertips, they tended to get him hurt.

“The collar was the first clue,” she said, beginning to move around the room to collect her things. “This was the second,” she added, handing his battered black suitcase to him, prayer beads wrapped neatly around the handle. “I could smell consecrated earth from even inside your case.”

“And the third?”

“I did my research,” Phryne replied with another smile, one that was equal parts scarlet satisfaction and dimpled intelligence. “There are only a few exorcists working in this city, legitimate ones, I mean, and of those, you’re the only Anglican priest.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” he said, grudgingly. He gave her another searching look, and he could swear she preened just slightly.

“Actually,” she said, her voice taking on a thoughtful tone, “I’d been meaning to pay you a visit. I have a friend who could use the help of a priest.”

“You’ve been here less than a month and already found someone who needs an exorcist?” Jack was amused now. This Fisher woman looked like she attracted trouble, from the toes of her shining white Mary-Janes to her immaculate creamy trousers and fashionably-cut violet satin tunic, to the tip of the peacock feather in her equally-purple cloche. She looked like she sought it out when it didn’t find her, in fact. And she could smell consecrated earth, which was a sure mark of the spiritually-sensitive. Of course she had found trouble.

“Not…. Not exactly.” She turned to look toward the next room of the flat. “Dot? Dot, please do come out. Dot, I promise, the Father won’t hurt you.” With a faint fizzing noise and another teakettle whistle, the phantasmal shape of a young woman in a sensible brown cardigan and pink dress appeared in the room with them. The colors of her were faded, as if she were in a bad photograph, but they shifted back and forth as various parts of her solidified and dissolved again. At Jack's astonished goggle, she waved shyly.

“Say hello, Dot, this is Father Jack Robinson. Father, this is Dot.”

Jack staggered backward into the chair behind him, sitting down with an undignified thump that blew a cloud of dust into the air. “A ghost? Your friend is a ghost? You made friends with a ghost. Of course you did.”

“Companion, actually.” The ghostly woman folded her hands benignly, then, spotting the cross on his case, suddenly grew excited, waving her hands at Phryne eagerly. “Oh, she’s remembered something, I think!” Phryne rummaged in the trunk for a moment and pulled out a pencil and notebook, which she laid down, open, on the end table in the corner. “She’ll need a few moments, but she’s getting better at physical interactions with the world. She can’t talk, of course, though she can make some convincing-sounding murmurs and a fizz like a kettle.”

“Of course,” Jack replied. His head throbbed again. What was that he had said to himself, about this being a simple job? He took that back. He would have preferred a much angrier demon. Maybe even several. The young woman’s wispy face took on a worried expression as she floated towards him, pen hovering where her hand would have been, were she solid. “If she’s a named soul and not something metaphysical pretending, I can shrive her, if that’s what she needs.”

“That’s part of the problem, I’m afraid,” replied Miss Fisher. She was packing things away in her trunk and sweeping up salt as she spoke, while the ghost labored once more over the notebook in the corner. “Whenever she tries to write out her name, she just leaves, well, a dot on the paper. So, in absence of a full name, I’ve dubbed her Dot, and hopefully that will serve for the time being.” She folded away another roll of herbs and walked to where the ghost was floating, a hopeful expression visible on her face through the back of her spectral head. Jack scrubbed his eyes tiredly. He needed to get back to the church and explain to his acolyte where he’d been. There was no telephone receiver that he could see here, and it was going to be a long wait for a tram. Phryne, bent over the notebook, suddenly straightened with a satisfied look on her face and snapped the book shut.

“Father Robinson,” she said, and he looked up. “Would you happen to need a lift back to your church? I have a car and more than enough room. And I could use a hand getting my luggage down the stairs.”

“You have a vehicle?” Perhaps things could be salvaged. Granted, he wasn’t likely to make good time back into the city, given the usual tentativeness that newcomers had with Melbourne’s roads, but it would be faster than waiting a half-hour or more for the next, likely-unreliable, tram.

“Oh yes,” said Phryne Fisher, with a look that was far more mischievous than he was comfortable with. “It’s a lovely little thing. Hispano-Suiza. Very reliable. We can get you there.” It was only when he was already placing his suitcase in the backseat, next to a strapped-in jar that looked suspiciously like a burial urn, that it registered that he hadn’t heard the last word that was usually in that sentence. “Safely” had been worryingly absent from her promise of taking him to where he needed to go.


	2. Chapter 2

When they arrived at Old Saint James, Jack was no longer in possession of his composure. In point of fact, he was still barely in possession of his lunch. Miss Fisher’s driving seemed to be designed to scare the Devil out of any occupants who were not suitably holy enough, and scare the sainthood out of those who were. As it was, he had managed to refrain from profanities, except for one whispered ‘Dear God!’ when she came perilously close to a haycart while overtaking a taxicab at speed. At his exclamation, Dot, who, for some reason, had decided to ride, semi-corporeal, in the seat next to him, had bowed her head and crossed herself. She gave him a hesitant smile and motioned as if she would pat his shoulder as they got out of the vehicle, Jack avoiding staggering very barely. He wondered if she might have been a Catholic before her death. She seemed friendly enough, for a ghost. Usually the non-human entities he encountered were indifferent, intent on their own ghostly errands, or actively hostile towards him and everyone else corporeal. From inside the vestibule, there was the sound of rapid feet, and his acolyte, young Hugh Collins, came rushing, lit candle still clutched awkwardly in one hand. His white training robe drifted out behind him as he skidded to a stop a few feet from the car. “Father!” he began. “I called down to the building, but they said you’d left…” he trailed off, his gaze drifting from his priest, who was looking rather ill, with blood still in his hairline, to the extravagant woman in the driver’s seat whose outfit, though it covered everything, still managed to look rather scandalous, to… “Ghost!” Hugh leapt a good foot in the air and dropped the candle, which bounced along the flagstones and went out as it rolled to Jack’s feet. “Father Jack th- th- there’s…”

“Yes Collins, I know,” Jack said. “This one’s friendly.” Hugh’s training as an apprentice exorcist had been a bit bumpy, and spirits that manifested themselves in the daytime were a particular bugbear for the young man, for whatever reason.

“Friend… are you, um… er…?” Hugh stumbled for words, and Dot, sensing her opportunity, floated from the car with a serious look to her face. With some concentration, she managed to scoop up the candle, and her disembodied hand hovered it back over to the young acolyte, who seemed pinned to the spot. Both Jack and Phryne watched in amusement as he took the levitating candle and nodded a bewildered thank you when Dot reappeared, her eyes downcast and her smile shy. Jack noticed that when she had reappeared, she had changed her garb to include a hat, out of deference to being in church, he assumed. _Curious,_ he thought. _But very polite of her._ Hugh gaped a little more before remembering himself long enough to make the sign of the cross.

“Well, Father,” said Phryne, “shall we go inside and I can show you what Dot and I have figured out? I think she’d prefer to cross over, given the chance. But without her name, I think we’ll both have trouble with that.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Jack, recalling himself as well. She had asked him for help, after all. The least he could do was show her to his office and see what she had to say. He collected his briefcase and Hugh with a pair of forceful tugs, and the odd quartet made their way inside.

Jack’s office, such as it was, was unusual for a man of the cloth. For starters, almost nothing was as gilded as Phryne had expected it to be. It was a plain-papered room, with Father Jack Robinson, Exorcist painted on a nameplate outside, and a few bleary saints hung over water stains on the inside. A wide, finely-made desk dominated the room, with a few uncomfortable-looking chairs for visitors, and one slightly plusher one for Jack to sit in. But he remained standing as they filed, or in Dot’s case, floated, inside. He busied himself with unpacking his case, refilling his jar of salt, placing the casket of consecrated earth with the remains of the banished demon inside a desk with a Saint Benedict medal blazoned on the drawer. “That should hold it until I can bury the thing in the churchyard,” he said, settling into his chair at last. “Now, how can I help you both?”

Miss Fisher took her time getting seated, arranging herself in such a way that he couldn’t help but notice the length and shapeliness of her legs. He chastised himself and focused on her face, though that was only fractionally less distracting. Dot hovered her way through and into the second chair, with Hugh dithering in the background, trying to decide if he should pull a chair out for a ghostly visitor or not. Jack shook his head, trying to bring his attention to heel. “Now, as you have probably noticed,” the investigator began, “Dot does not seem to be quite a typical ghost. She can move and manipulate the world better than most spirits. She’s not repelled by the church, nor captured, or even hardly affected by most of the strategies that I would have tried on something more malicious.” Jack nodded. He’d noticed that she failed to shy away from the churchyard, which would have sent most spirits fleeing into the Ether, and other than the fact that he could see through her to the cushion on her chair, she seemed to be a normal woman. “This notebook here,” she said, waving the volume, “is her collected notes of what she can remember. Your prayer beads reminded her of a few things, though I’m afraid the only words I can read right now are ‘Lola’ and ‘shadowy’. I’ll have to decipher the rest tonight. The two problems she has, apart from the ghostliness, are her inability to speak, and her inability to remember her own name.” Phryne leaned forward, and Jack caught a faint whiff of perfume. “So, my question to you is, is this something you’ve encountered before, or do we have an outlier on our hands?”

“Our hands?” Hugh interrupted. “I don’t think… Father is it, I…, it’s not wise to have civilians…amateurs…” Jack gestured gently, and Hugh’s mouth closed with a snap. He retreated to the doorway, still fretting wordlessly.

“Not typical as far as I’m aware,” Jack replied. “We have ghosts and demons here, just as you do in England. Ghosts are generally benign, demons not so much.”

“I remember that much from when I was living here as a child,” she interjected, and Jack nodded in acknowledgement. “Though of course,” she continued thoughtfully, “English ghosts have their own quirks and peeves.”

“What we have that England doesn’t – the tribes have their own traditions and spirits, which I occasionally run into, though they much prefer the wilderness to our cities. There’s also the Chinese and their ancestors. That type of spirit can be difficult for me to work with.” He paused and gave a wry smile. “Who would think a language barrier would persist in the Afterlife?”

“And what with the occult obsession that sprang up after the war, I can imagine you’ve been called on to assist in a few accidental or botched summonings?” Phryne was getting to her point. Dot nodded eagerly, having apparently subscribed to the same theory as this bewildering, yet clearly quite competent, lady investigator. “Have you ever found someone like Dot amongst them? Perhaps this Lola person conducted an illicit service to call Dot up and did it poorly.”

“Yes, well,” he said, and leaned back. The look of intelligence in her eyes was arresting, and he had to search his mind for what he had been intending to say. “I can’t say that I have, but I’m sure that a little ramble through the library will turn up what I need to know.”

He had meant it to be a dismissal, a way to get her out of his office so he could think straight, settle his unhappy stomach, and grapple with this new wrinkle to the world he’d been policing for the past ten years since his demob. But instead, she stood with a resolute smile, and offered him a card. “That sounds excellent,” said Miss Fisher with a smile. “If you’ll drop by after breakfast tomorrow, we can put our contacts together and sketch out a battle plan. Assuming you don’t have services?”

“No, no,” he mumbled, shocked. “I’m not that kind of priest. And Anglican services are on Sundays anyway.”

“Wonderful,” she replied. “If you’d prefer, breakfast will be served at ten.” And she disappeared in a waft of expensive fabrics and spice-scented perfume, followed closely after by Dot, who gave Hugh a barely-perceptible wave and a tiny teakettle whistle. Jack ran a hand through his hair, trying to arrange his ideas, and succeeded only in giving himself a jolt of pain when his fingers found the welt from the doorknob. Collins noticed his wince.

“Sir?”

“I’m all right, Collins,” he sighed. “It looks like I’m going to need to do some research what kind of spirit we might be dealing with.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “Please notify the Bishop that we will be down in the archives for the remainder of the day, should he wish to contact us.”

“Yes Father.” But as Jack collected his things, Hugh dithered in the doorway for a moment longer. “Er… Father?” Jack looked up, curious. “Do you think there’s any hope for that girl? She seems very er…nice… for a spirit, I mean?”

“That’s what I’d like to find out, Collins,” Jack replied, suppressing his smile. “But your compassion for her suits the job well. Let’s hope our files have something useful.”

\---

Miss Fisher drove home in a state of contemplation. It did not reduce her speed much, but it did shift her course from a direct route to her home to one that led her, without actually realizing it, to where she had not been intending to go for many more weeks. She was halfway into the cemetery drive before she even recognized where she was, sparing a glance overhead. “Oh,” she sighed. Dot fizzed slightly, and laid a mostly-solid hand on her arm. “Thank you, Dot,” Phryne said. “Did you direct me here?” Dot shook her head, and Phryne drooped still further. “Then I guess I’d better go in alone,” she said. “Would you stay here please?” Without really waiting for an answer, she got out of the car, and made her hesitant way down the uneven cobbles, knowing where she was headed, and dreading it all the same.

There, well back from the main, far from the grand spires and obsidian carvings, was the cluster of graves she was looking for. A small handful of granite slabs, each one laid neatly in the grass, and planted around with low sheaves of irises, most of which had already blown and withered this time of year. But a few of the ruffled purple and yellow blooms were still sunning themselves, and Phryne had to move their petals to read the names on the stones as she crouched. The graves were clearer than she had expected. _Perhaps Mac? Or the Stanleys?_ It didn’t matter much; the dead would do as they pleased, whether their graves were well-tended or crumbled to soil, but Phryne felt a thread of warmth wind its way through her heart anyway. She crouched carefully, being mindful of her trousers, to look at the names on the little tiles.

_Henry Michael. Born into the arms of God. 1897. Calliope Prudence. Called home 1894-1895. Thalia Joanna. For when your bones come home to us._

Phryne couldn’t help but wince, even though she knew what the stone said. No dates – her father had saved that money for beer, at least. Or maybe it had been her mother’s wild, unfounded, but persistent hope that Janey was still alive. Hard to say. They’d been hauled to England by the calls of duty and inheritance, and the push of poverty and disrepute, before any conclusion had been reached. But, Phryne was here now, and she was going to find out about Janey. She stayed there for a long while, absorbing the scent of the irises and consecrated earth, the sound of the wind bursting in faint puffs from around the mausoleum, the faint thrum of ghosts and spirits muted and far away, like traffic on a street blocks away. After a while, she rose, broke a blossom from one of the irises, laid it across the marker of the empty grave, and made her way back to the car and her more current ghostly concern, who was waiting politely in the passenger seat with some ethereal piece of needlepoint forming under her fingers. Phryne squared her shoulders and arranged her driving gloves before throwing the Hispano into gear with an authoritative clunk. She was going dancing tonight and getting some information. She was going to make some things happen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Edward is played by Idris Elba, because I say so, and because Aunt P has impeccable taste.

The next morning dawned clear, but with hints on the wind of heat rising later in the day. The exorcist and his acolyte had caught the first tram out to the address printed on Miss Fisher’s card. “Is this it, Father?” asked Hugh. He craned his head back, trying to take in the cream stucco and ochre-trimmed house in a single long gaze. Sunlight glittered in and out of the leaves in the surrounding trees, and the scent of roses in bloom hinted at a well-cultivated back garden as well. “But why would a lady who can afford this work?”

“Intelligence doesn’t enjoy boredom or stagnation, Collins, no matter who possesses it,” Jack replied absently. He was more interested in the vehicle parked at the end of the street than at the size or trappings of the house. He could almost swear he had seen it before. Then, an annoyed shout drew his attention, and Jack remembered exactly who that green-trimmed roadster belonged to. “Ashford Clayton,” he growled, and sped up his stride. As he and Collins came through Miss Fisher’s gate, they could see a tall young man bellowing his lungs out on her front doorstep, his black hair standing awry in every direction.

“Miss Fisher! Let me in!” He was bawling like a farmer herding cattle, directing his words toward an open window on the second floor, where lacy curtains were billowing inward, but no sign of life appeared. “Miss Fisher, you can’t leave me out here! It isn’t right!” Jack strode forward and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, ready and willing to duck and return fire if a fist came flying his way. “What the hell do y-… Father Jack?”

“Ashford,” he admonished, “even God has the courtesy to knock.” The young man had the sense to look abashed. Clayton was a young man, turning twenty this year, if Jack remembered correctly. He was part of the church, though thankfully Jack’s role dealing with spirits left him off the roster in teaching catechism classes. But the young man had been, and was still, a notorious romantic, with a penchant for both overzealous pursuit and astonishing melancholy when he was rejected. Jack guessed Miss Fisher might be his latest object. “Is there something you need?”

“I…” Ashford looked up again at the billowing curtains. “I just wanted to talk to her again. She’s so beautiful. She was dancing with me at the Green Mill, and I thought… I thought…”

“So, you’re shouting vulgarities through a lady’s windows at this time in the morning, after she already turned you down. Go home Ashford.”

“If she were a lady, she wouldn’t have given me the wrong idea,” he protested, and Jack’s face darkened into a scowl.

“And if your previous behavior hadn’t been enough of a deterrent to her interest, I think that statement will just about do it,” the priest replied. Firmly, Jack turned the young man on his heel and sent him through the gate with a push that might have been a hair stronger than necessary. He stumbled, missed the begonias, barely missed the spiky points of the fence, and caught himself with an undignified stagger. Once upright, the young man huffed his way down the street, agonizingly wringing his hat between his hands. Hugh watched with an appalled look tinged with amusement, which only vanished when Miss Fisher’s door swung open.

“Father, do come in, Miss Fisher has been expecting you,” intoned the balding man behind the door, helping them with their coats. But before he could continue, the woman herself swept forward in a waft of patterned linen. “Why hello Father, and you’ve brought Hugh as well. Oh Mr. Butler, please let Mrs. Butler know we’ll be just a few minutes. We’ll eat as soon as Uncle Edward arrives.”

“Of course, Miss,” he said, and disappeared into the rear of the house. She drew Jack and his acolyte into the parlor, toward a low table stacked with books.

“I’m so glad you both came,” she began, gesturing them to sit down. Jack took a seat in the chair next to the table, and she did the same, while Hugh lowered himself gingerly onto a settee with the look of one who was expecting a pin in his chair. His eyes darted about, but Dot wasn’t in the room. “And thank you for dealing with Ashford,” Miss Fisher added, a twinkle sparkling in her eye. “I perhaps danced a little too long with him last night, but I was waiting for a new contact to appear, and had to pass the time.” Her expression almost bordered on challenge, urging him to comment censoriously on her conduct, but Jack passed on the opportunity. Instead, he scanned the titles on her bookshelves, and had to restrain his jaw from gaping just a hair.

“Your library is impressive,” he said. “Some of those titles should probably not have made it through customs, in fact.”

“I know a lot of people,” she explained with an airy wave. “And the information is invaluable.”

“I don’t disagree,” he said, drawing a shocked intake of breath from Hugh. “Some of these, I don’t remember the Church’s library having any reference similar.” His opinions on Miss Fisher were evolving yet again. She was scandalous, it was true, brash and an appallingly daredevil driver, but also intelligent, talented, and irrepressible. In spite of his inclinations, he found himself warming to her. As he mulled this over, under cover of examining her books further, a knock at the door signaled the arrival of her final breakfast guest. Mr. Butler was instantly at the door, welcoming the man in.

“Mr. Stanley, Miss,” he intoned. Behind him, an older black man with close-cut pepper-with-a-dusting-of-salt hair and gold-rimmed spectacles was folding away a slip of paper into the pocket of his jacket as he entered the room.

“Uncle,” she exclaimed, standing to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you could come this morning.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay beyond breakfast, Phryne, but Arthur sends his love.” He squeezed her hands gently and she gave a warm smile. “He enjoyed the gobstoppers you sent quite a bit. Have you had a chance to consult with the expert you had mentioned?” Jack stepped forward, catching Mr. Stanley’s eye for the first time.

“Father Jack Robinson, Mr. Stanley,” he said, holding out his hand.

“You’re a priest? Phryne, you didn’t mention he was a priest.” Her uncle shook Jack’s hand gingerly, clearly compelled by good manners more than good feeling.

“I know how you feel, Uncle Edward, but I was hoping you could overlook it?”

“I have a problem with Catholics,” he said with a harrumph. “Really Phryne, I have my own contacts that are much less gilded and rosaried.” His niece was all in earnest.

“Oh, no, he’s an Anglican priest. Exorcist too, so rather priest-adjacent. And,” she added conspiratorially, “he’s not bound to celibacy.”

“You sound entirely too pleased about that.” Her uncle’s tone could have dried up a fountain.

“If it helps any, Mr. Edwards,” Jack began, “I’m not much on the conversion side of things. I’m strictly here to assist Miss Fisher and Dot in finding the source of Dot’s afflictions.” At Dot’s name, there was a squeak of noise from where Hugh had been sitting, and Father Robinson, Miss Fisher, and her uncle all turned towards it. Dot had materialized next to Hugh, and was mouthing words, accompanied by her quiet teakettle noise. Hugh was frozen, his face somehow managing to go both white with shock and blush red with embarrassment, but Dot whistled again and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I take it, Phryne,” said her uncle, “that this is the spirit you told me about?”

“She is indeed,” Miss Fisher replied deftly, steering him toward the dining room. Jack and Hugh obediently followed, with Dot floating behind. There were five chairs pulled out, and they each took one, with Dot hovering over hers in a well-mannered imitation, even going so far as to unfold her napkin into her partially substantial lap. It floated for a moment, but landed on the chair when she turned her attention to moving her fork. “And that’s why I’ve invited you all here.” She paused as Mr. Butler served them all sausages and eggs over their shoulders, only continuing once she had a piece of toast to gesture with. “I have plenty of experiences with the supernatural,” she explained. “As do you, Father, and you, Uncle Edward.”

“Are you an exorcist as well, Mr. Stanley?” Hugh asked. His voice seemed to have returned after absorbing a cup of tea and a pile of eggs.

“No,” the man said, his prior prickliness having marginally given way to what seemed to be his more natural good humor. “But my occupation as a traveling businessman has made me many friends with the native shamans, and I’ve seen enough of their magic to recognize it in other contexts. Though I hope you remember I did stop practicing, Phryne, once I married Prudence.” This was said with a puckish glance at Miss Fisher, which suggested to Jack that the pair had temperament in common along with a familial bond through the same woman.

“Of course, Uncle Edward,” she replied, nodding deferentially. Jack smelled a rat. He doubted Miss Fisher deferred to anyone generally. “How is the new operation faring?”

“The mine is doing well,” the man answered, a definite look of mischief flickering on his face between bites of kippers. He sipped at his own teacup appreciatively. “I’ll bring you some opals the next time we dig any up. Although I had an interesting run-in with that Grandmother Lin woman again. I’ll have to tell you about it some time.”

The talk turned to more mundane subjects, Jack content to take the measure of his dining companions through indirect means. Miss Fisher’s uncle might look like an aging land agent, but anyone who worked the gemstone claims, and was respected by the tribes despite that work, was going to have more dangerous edges to him than met the eye. Which seemed to be true of everyone at the table, with the possible exception of Hugh. Jack wondered idly if Mr. Butler were perhaps an agent trained in espionage, or a master jewel thief in his spare time as the man leaned over his shoulder to pour more orange juice. When they repaired to the lounge the talk once more centered on Dot and her current situation. Mr. Stanley and Jack looked at each other sidelong, each wondering who would make the first move toward speaking with Dot. Miss Fisher solved the standoff with an airy wave.

“Uncle Edward, I know you have constraints on your time, so Dot has agreed that you can ask her whatever you think might help us find out what happened to her. The older man nodded and moved around Jack toward the ghost, leaving the priest to take up his previous chair next to the book table, with Miss Fisher sitting on the other side.

“Now, Dot,” said Mr. Stanley, seating himself next to her, “I’m going to assume my niece has asked you some of these questions, but would you mind answering them again for me?” She nodded eagerly, mouthing words that rounded her cheeks, but still emitting no sound besides the teakettle whistle. “Do you remember your name?” She shook her head. “Your death?” Another head shake. “Do you know if you’re from this area?” That got a helpless shrug of shoulders and hands. The man paused thoughtfully, until his eyes fell on the nearby bookshelf. “Can you read, Dot?” The spirit nodded, a mite affronted, Jack thought, but Edward Stanley smiled. “Do any of them ring familiar?” Here, Dot nodded vigorously. “Now, I’m guessing whatever’s blocking your memory of your identity will be rather strong on the particulars, but if you could mark any of my niece’s books on the spine with this chalk,” he held out a small nubbin produced from an inner pocket, “perhaps your less firm memories will be able to assert themselves.”

The foggy face was puzzled, but Dot did as instructed, carefully taking the chalk from his hand and hovering to the bookshelf, where she lingered for a while over the Latin texts, puzzling at the names, skipped most of the botany and scientific books entirely, then began ticking off books more frequently once she reached the section of classic literature, followed by pulpier novels. Here, she marked quickly, though Jack could see a faint silvery blush creeping over her cheeks, as if she were embarrassed to admit to reading _The Sheikh’s Silken Fetters_ and its sequel, _Bound in the Silken Tent_. But Jack could only admire Mr. Stanley’s line of thinking. Who or whatever had constrained Dot’s memory would not have been able to eliminate the cultural context in which she had lived, so whatever books she happened to know would give them a picture, however incomplete, of where to start their search for her history and her name. “Dot,” Jack said, struck by an idea, “do you think you could mark anywhere on this map that sounds familiar as well?” He flipped open the atlas that he had found under his elbow when he sat, and Dot bent over its pages as well, marking dots and lines on various river and city names, turning pages more and more slowly, but stubbornly persisting until she had reviewed every last map, down to the territories in South America. When Dot had finished, she turned back around to the patiently waiting room, clearly quite exhausted.

“Thank you, Dot,” said Mr. Stanley kindly. “If you need to rest, do go ahead. I’ve made note of everything.” He had covered almost two full sheets of paper in an educated hand that was clear enough Jack could almost read it upside down. Dot gave a thankful nod and a tiny whistle, then disappeared, presumably to take the ghost equivalent of a mid-morning kip. “And now, my dear Phryne,” he said, “I must abscond with this information and look up my foreman on Basker, who I suspect will not be quite as happy to see me as you were.” He kissed his niece on both cheeks, then held out his hand, a bit more genially than before, to Father Jack. “Best of luck to you, Father, and I’ll send word if we find the body of the girl in any of our diggings.”

When he had left, Miss Fisher bent eagerly over her bookshelves, followed by Hugh, pulling out the titles that Dot had marked and flipping through them. Jack scanned the atlas, trying to keep his mind clear of presuppositions and let the marks tell the story of the contours of Dot’s education. He saw possibilities immediately suggest themselves. Dot’s marks were quite sparse in the Asiatic countries. She had marked Japan and China, but none of the mountains or rivers seemed to have rung any bells, nor many of the island nations surrounding. Many places in England were dotted or underlined, as well as names and fronts that had been in the newspapers during the Great War: Cairo, the Somme, Antwerp, Alsace-Lorraine, Giza. But, the greatest density of scribblings were made all over the map of Australia.

“Now,” said Miss Fisher, after the silence had stretched for a few long minutes, “I think I have some ideas. You?”

“Theories are suggesting themselves,” he replied. He wasn’t being cagey, not exactly, but he still felt a little uncomfortable with this whole process of sharing a case with her. The Church regulated the capture and management of spirits and souls carefully, and for good reason. An undisciplined individual, or an unscrupulous one, could do more harm than all but the most malicious of demonic beings. Jack doubted Miss Fisher fell into the latter category, but he was still undecided on the former.

“I think, Father,” Hugh began, “we can safely assume Dot is a relatively modern woman, not an ancient one.” Jack resisted the urge to groan and roll his eyes. Circumspection was not Hugh’s strong point either. “She has familiarity with several recent publications, and look, Father,” he said, holding out a book with double underlining on the spine, “ _Hopalong Cassidy_ , I love this book.”

“Thank you, Collins,” Jack said, struggling to keep the asperity out of his voice. “Note that down and anything else that strikes you.” Hugh missed the tone and beamed, turning back to his work, while Miss Fisher watched with subtle amusement playing on her face. “And you, Miss Fisher, what are your thoughts?”

“Well,” she said, faint smirk still in evidence, “since you decline to share your conclusions, I suppose I shall have to stake the claim myself.” She sat forward, and all the flirtatious inflection in the world couldn’t conceal her genuine satisfaction. “I agree with Hugh,” she began, and the acolyte beamed, though he hastily covered it. “I think our Dot is or was a modern girl. She has read a number of texts that are generally covered in primary schooling, or that would be approved of in a good Christian home, but not many that would be looked at in say, a finishing school.” The slight twist of her crimson mouth suggested Miss Fisher had intimate experience with that curriculum. “She emphatically marked Mrs. Beeton, but didn’t register a thing that spoke of a second language in any capacity, so that limits her origin to English-speaking places where a relatively poor family could get by without bilingualism and send their daughter into service.”

Jack’s head was beginning to ache again, just slightly. Her conclusions weren’t incorrect, and if he added them to his own, they sketched accurately the picture of a young Australian woman, pious and genteel, unadventurous and limited in opportunity, who yet somehow had managed to not merely become tangled in the occult, but tangled in such a way that her situation did not resemble any he had ever encountered. “Miss Fisher,” he said. “I agree with you. And that is a point of great concern.” But before he could continue, he was interrupted by the smooth glide of Mr. Butler’s footsteps entering the room.

“Begging your pardon, Miss, but there’s a caller on the telephone. Urgent request for your presence in Delhamside.”

“The Communist graveyard?” Hugh’s face was puzzled.

“Of course, Mr. B.” Miss Fisher replied. “Tell them I’ll be along shortly.” She turned to the two men. “Care to join me? We can finish our discussion along the way.”

Unaccountably, and to his own appalled astonishment, Jack heard himself accept. It was going to be another interesting day.


	4. Chapter 4

Bert was not having a good morning. The heat which had dogged him most of the previous day had come roaring back with the rising sun, he was six feet into an eight-foot grave, covered in baking dry dust and getting bashed with loose gravel, and to put the capper on it, the man they were digging for was out here having _opinions_ on the whole process. Just what every digger wants.

“That big rock just there, gentlemen, you will want to watch that one, I have a feeling it’s protruding just enough to—” There was an awful crunch as Cec’s shovel scraped against the side wall against the rock in question, dragging the thing out far enough to land a hairsbreadth from Bert’s foot. He leapt back, only to have a shower of dirt pelt down on him from the edge of the grave, rattling down the back of his collar in a way that made him think of scorpions and other creepy-crawlies.

“And that’s bloody well enough for now,” he snapped. Cec, nursing his smarting hand, gave a wordless nod, and the two gravediggers clambered out of their pit, seeking respite with their backs against a gravestone which had, thankfully, stayed cool more than the rest of the plain graveyard where they were working. Bert shook out his shirt and lit a fag, while Cec swigged lemonade from a thermos. It would have been beer, but the caretaker had too keen a nose and had made them pour the good stuff out at the gate. Nevertheless, it took thirst and dirt out of the throat, which remedied things. The man with the _opinions,_ however, was not so easily driven away.

“Really, another smoko? I don’t feel you’re taking any sort of pride in your work at all.” The toffy voice had driven Bert to distraction already, and he swung round with his shovel to hand, fuming. The graveyard was otherwise empty, everyone with sense who was dead was buried, and everyone with sense who was alive had retreated to various points of shade. Only Bert, Cec, and the toffy fellow were standing between the somber granite and obsidian slabs, baking like biscuits in the growing heat. A few shade trees had been planted near the older graves, but they were nowhere near this particular patch of bone bed. It was just the three of them, plus everyone down below, of course.

“Awright, listen you,” he said, eyes blazing. “I’ve put up with this long enough. Unless you want to man the bloody shovel yourself, stick a button with a lock on your lip!”

“Now see here, Albert, you’re really being quite irrational about this,” the man began, but Bert had had enough. He hurled the shovel for all he was worth, only to watch it pass harmlessly through the haunt, and clang loudly into the gravestone behind him. The ghostly man’s sneer merely intensified, and he advanced toward Bert, fist rising of its own accord, when all three were halted by a woman’s voice.

“Hello there, I believe someone called for assistance?” In the near distance, approaching rapidly, a woman in a tan driving coat and hat was striding toward them. In one hand was a red handbag that matched her patterned blouse, while she rummaged in it with the other. Just behind her, parked on the path Bert could see a beauty of a roadster, with what looked like a blonde man leaning out of the back, vomiting. He and Cec both refocused on the woman, as did the pestering ghost, who seemed almost pleased that a woman with money was around. Codger must have fancied himself quite the cake-eater in life.

“Oi!” Cec waved. “We’re just trying to get ‘im under, and he won’t bugger off.”

“Language, Cecil,” sniffed the ghost, and Bert fought down a snarl. The smart-looking sheila was now in front of them, inspecting the group with what Bert hoped was a practiced eye. Gravediggers generally didn’t get bothered like this – ghosts usually stayed with their kin or whoever they happened to have a grudge against. And Bert was a good, staunch, godless red-ragger, which left him uninteresting to any of the religious type of haunt. And somehow – “somehow, this right bastard has still decided to ‘ang around and pester us when we’re just tryin’ ta get the job done!” At some point, Bert realized, he had started to shout at the woman. She was unfazed. She advanced toward the ghost, who floated backwards warily, wondering just who she might be.

“I see,” she said. “So, you’ve not been haunted before in this line of work?”

“Didn’t say that now,” Bert replied, slightly mollified that she wasn’t sniffing her nose at him the way the ghost was. “But usually they pop right off when they see this.” He dragged a pendant out from under his ragged shirt. It was a metal disc painted red, shaped like a pair of interlocking gears with a few of the teeth missing. “You do know what it is, right?”

“Communist insignia, commonly called the red-ragger’s cross, yes,” the woman said. “Should be perfectly suitable for telling an atheist ghost to leave you be, and,” she added, looking around, “since you’re trying to bury him in the Communist graveyard, I doubt very much he was a practicing shaman or something of that stripe.”

Bert felt a tinge of relief. Cec’s brother had actually managed to call an expert this time, even if she did dress like a fashion plate. “That’s right. No religiosity allowed here. ‘Spirits,’” he quoted dutifully, “are the last vestiges of the electricity of the mind…”

“…and need no more be admitted as proof of the afterlife than the ability of a doctor to restore a patient who at first appears dead to the layman.” The woman nodded as she finished Galvani’s quote. “Red-raggers indeed. Well, not to worry. He’s not managed to possess you, so I’ll figure him out.” She freed her hand from her handbag, though Bert couldn’t see what she had pulled out, seated herself a mite irreverently on a gravestone, pulled off her gloves, and began twining some thread between her fingers. “I learned a few tricks from a Parisian magician,” she added, an almost wistful look in her eyes. “He wanted a ghost for his show but kept accidentally summoning demons. Nearly every piece of his equipment had a passenger that he had to have cast back out again at some point.”

“Bloody ignorant,” snorted Bert.

“Oh, he was quite clever with his hands,” she said ambiguously, “just careless. He was an excellent teacher though.” She held up her ungloved fingers to show the string amulet she’d been weaving, a red star within a silver square. “If he’s a pretend Commo or a pretend human, this will catch him out either way. A ward that’s been made by one’s own hands will cover either of those possibilities.” She gave a predatory flash of teeth and strode off in the direction the ghost had retreated with her handbag swinging briskly from her arm.

“She’s somethin’,” Cec supplied, taking another swig of lemonade.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” A harried-looking priest was coming their way, supporting the green-faced bloke who had been in the roadster. He settled the sick one in a sort of leaning position against a monument, which seemed to be the most sensible place for him at the moment, then turned to the two gravediggers regarding him suspiciously. “Did you see where…”

“She went thataway,” Bert snapped with a jerk of his thumb. He wiped his forehead and scowled. His day was going badly enough without dealing with a collar. As he spoke, there was a shout of anger from behind a few of the stones, followed by a howl and a rushing noise. “Sounds like she’s comin’ back tho.”

Sure enough, a rippling, furious ghost was backing away from Miss Fisher as she advanced between the glinting gravestones and the waving grass, one hand holding her string amulet, the other lifting a corked bottle to her lips so she could work at the stopper with her teeth. Jack couldn’t decide where to look.

“Father! Catch!” She pitched it to him underhanded, and he caught it without thinking and immediately began working the cork loose. Miss Fisher wheeled around, putting her back to the cluster of men, and drew a pistol from that mysterious handbag of hers. “Silver bullets,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Splash him and I’ll shoot to banish!”

Jack’s fingers fumbled for only a moment longer. He swung his arm in a wide arc and saw the droplets fly straight into the form threatening Miss Fisher, sizzling as they went. Instantly, the ghost howled in pain and contracted from a vague cloud of ether into a single, malevolent miasma. It was the opportunity Miss Fisher had been waiting for. She leveled her pistol, the gold glinting in the sunshine, and fired into the center of the mass. Once. Twice.

The ghost howled again, but it was dwindling to a defeated whine even as the sound rang out in the bright air. Instinctively, Jack’s hand found his rosary and began working along the beads. As he began to pray the Invitatory, he heard the two gravediggers reciting from their own book of credos, at the same time that Hugh began to pray as well. The ghost began to vibrate. It was hurt, it was bound, and it was being confronted by at least three different strands of belief that were forming a very strong incentive for it to pop away to the other side. With a final, distinct, “Well, bugger you all then!” the ghost disappeared, leaving a shocked company of men, and one very satisfied-looking Miss Fisher standing in the middle of them all, polishing her pistol.

“Well done, men,” she quipped, with the air of the general in front of the troops. He saw Hugh’s hand crawl halfway to a salute before he suppressed the motion. “That was an unusual fellow.”

“Did we just banish a ghost with a Communist cross, silver bullets, holy water and the Lord’s Prayer?” Collins’ question was addressed to the Father, but Miss Fisher answered anyway.

“It would seem that our posh haunt had something of a hybridized set of beliefs,” she said. “Making him rather more inclined to hang about being a pest.”

“It’s a paradox of modernity, Collins,” Jack broke in. He had the niggling suspicion he had lost control of the situation some time ago, and he felt the need to emphasize that he was, in fact, still in possession of some sort of authority. “People hold more beliefs more loosely, which makes ghosts easier to convince away, but by the same token, they do need a multifaceted approach to address their personal convictions.”

“You mean we might start having to deal with even more of those bas- banging old codgers?” Bert was aghast. He retrieved his shovel and leaned against it, relighting his cigarette in the process. “This was a plum gig, but I’d rather tote the living around in a cab and get ta eat lunch near home if the passengers are gonna commentate either way.”

“Two was bad enough,” contributed Cec, and Miss Fisher whisked around with interest.

“Two?”

“Well, that coot we just sent off and the little girl. She was stubborn as a mule with a kick like an emu.”

“What little girl?” Jack fixed his gaze on the man as well, and Cec felt himself flinch. The priest’s clear eyes were far more compelling than they had any right to be. Bert spoke up.

“Was a stubborn one maybe two weeks ago, tho’ she couldna been more than ten or so,” he said. “Her priest gave her the regular tellin’-off, but she faded out slow and patchy, like a bad radio. Didn seem to be able to talk, but she sure could do some damage. Gave Cec that shiner when she blew out a door.” The other man nodded, running a finger across his cheekbone where a faded bruise was mostly concealed under dirt.

“I remember hearing about that one,” Jack said. “But you say she was mute?” Miss Fisher looked at him now, and the stare between the two of them felt palpable to the rest of the group. The priest and the investigator suddenly both strode for her car at the same instant, leaving Bert, Cec, and the still slightly-green Hugh standing bewildered next to a mostly-dug grave.

“Are those two…?” Bert trailed off. He wasn't even sure what question he was asking.

“They met yesterday,” the acolyte replied, wiping the back of his neck with a handkerchief and accepting a swig from Cec’s thermos. “And I still don’t exactly know what’s going on.” He would have continued, but there was a shout from the car.

“Collins!” Hugh handed the thermos back and turned from the two men reluctantly.

“I have a feeling we’ll be in touch,” Hugh said, a resigned expression on his face. But he was interrupted by the Father’s return.

“Gentlemen, could you take my acolyte back to the church when you finish? Miss Fisher and I have a visit to pay at the morgue, and Collins, I’m going to need you to wait for my call at the office.”

“Of course, Father,” Hugh replied, nearly sighing with relief. Even a ride in a hearse with a pair of gravediggers was a brighter prospect than a second drive in the Hispano-Suiza.


	5. Chapter 5

Since even Miss Fisher couldn’t put her foot to the floor while driving through a winding graveyard trail, Jack had time to formulate a plan as they wended their way to the gate. The morgue was only a few blocks away, which would, he hoped, be traversed in a more sedate manner than their previous journey. He just had to keep her attention on their conversation and away from the thrill of the drive.

“Miss Fisher,” he began, “how did you come to encounter Dot in the first place?” He resisted the urge to cross himself as they approached the exit. It would have been far too obvious.

“Well,” she said, arranging her tinted driving glasses, “it was shortly after I had gotten settled into my hotel.” There was a secure clunk of gears as she upshifted, and the roadster began to nose forward more quickly, but at a speed that was still conducive to conversation. “I had met up with an old friend who had taken me dancing and saw him off rather late.”

Jack saw the challenging flicker of her gaze behind the lenses but kept his face impassive. _Judge not,_ he mused to himself, _Your life has grey areas as well,_ and merely said: “Prime time and place for a haunting then, I would guess.” She seemed satisfied enough with his lack of commentary on her libertine habits to continue.

“Oh certainly. And, intimate contact being the power that it is, rather makes me a magnet for them.” She grinned at him but Jack found himself returning a smile, rather than a boundary-setting scowl, as he’d intended. “When I was small, I was mostly a scrapper, but by the time the War came about, I’d encountered enough spirits to decide what my calling was going to be, once I’d put in my time as a nurse.” Jack noticed a slight hitch in her voice, a hesitation that piqued his curiosity, but it was pushed aside as a line of inquiry by the thin set to her lips, accompanied by a violent swerve around a pair of cyclists that put them into oncoming traffic for an eternity of split seconds. Miss Fisher continued unconcernedly: “So when I found an ethereal young woman at sixes and sevens in my room, tears down her face and her maid’s cap and apron askew, darning a stocking neat as you please, I though, ‘well, of course she’d find me.’” Another clunk, and she wheeled the car through under a low bridge, cutting off a horse and cart with a blithe wave. “But when I went to rummage my trunk for supplies, Dot stopped me, and pointed to a table where she’d laid everything out, already prepared for a formal banishment.”

“She tried to arrange for her own crossing?”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” She shifted into a lower rev setting so they could be heard by one another and allowed the car to putter behind a taxicab while it tried to turn. “I did my level best, but she barely even wavered, much to her disappointment. That was when I invited her to stay as my companion while we sorted things out.” Jack’s mind was spinning now, but not enough to forget to be deeply thankful for the slowdown as she took the curve of their next turn solidly on all four wheels. “That was when I attempted to interview her, but her dexterity failed her completely when it came to speech or writing anything down.”

“It’s highly unusual for any spirit to be able to do much more physically than slam a door or tip over an inkwell or stack of books,” he said. He clapped his hand on his hat, but it was only mildly necessary. The brakes on the car didn’t even squeal as the orange seller darted in front of them, shaking a fist. “And she unpacked your whole trunk and darned a stocking?”

“The pair, in fact,” she said. “I’m wearing them now, though the mend is a little high for a man of the cloth to review.” Jack fought a smirk. The woman was absolutely impossible.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, “I may not be a traditional priest, but I’ve heard my share of confessions. Stocking mends are not high on my list of scandalous experiences.” She maneuvered the car into a space that wasn’t legal parking by any stretch of the imagination, threw it into park, removed her driving gloves and glasses, and turned the full force of her compelling gaze on him.

“Good to know, Father. I wouldn’t want to scare you off just when our investigation into these peculiarities has gotten interesting.”

“Our investigation?” Jack made his way around the vehicle and offered his arm gallantly as she descended from her chariot. “And here I was, thinking you merely wanted a second opinion. I’m honored, Miss Fisher." She merely smiled as they entered the morgue, but he all but felt the wave of satisfaction roll through her.

“Mac’s office is just down this way,” she said as they walked through the halls, the swish of his cassock matching the silken rustle of her skirt stride for stride. “I came to visit her my second day in town.”

“You have an odd choice in vacation spots,” the priest said. “My familiarity is almost entirely with the warding over the doorframes and the cold rooms.”

“The doctor and I have been friends since before the war,” Miss Fisher explained as they turned a corner. “She’s been my eyes and ears in the Antipodes for ages while she worked out of the Women’s Hospital.” But before she could continue, they were accosted by a white-coated mortician leaning out of an office.

“Oh, Father Jack, I was just placing a call to Old Saint James. A priest is needed downstairs.” Jack nodded, and a quick conference between himself and Miss Fisher ensued. She would find her doctor friend, he would see to comforting the afflicted, and they would reconvene with whatever knowledge they had gained on the following day in Jack’s office. The exorcist was escorted away, and Phryne took a good long opportunity to watch him go. It really was a bit unfair, she thought to herself, that the priesthood would have claimed such a smart figure. The cut of that robe was very trim indeed. Recalling herself, she continued on her way to Mac’s office.

The good doctor was ensconced in her chair in a manner that suggested she had just come out of surgery. She had both tweed-trousered legs up on her desk, a tumbler of whiskey swirling in one hand, and a folder of case notes in the other. While she mostly looked her usual implacable self, Phryne could see a few flecks of blood on the usually-white collar and cuffs, and many loose red strands escaping from her mannish coif that hinted her friend’s morning had been a trying one. Nevertheless, when she saw her friend, she set down the glass and smiled. “Phryne, there you are.”

“You were expecting me?” She made her way around the desk as Mac stood up to give her a hug and pour her a drink in almost the same motion.

“I heard your car,” the doctor explained, settling back into her chair. “It’s not enough that the hospital board feels my office needs to be in the morgue, rather than near my patients, they also had to set me up in the one with the appalling soundproofing. But,” she amended with a sardonic lift of her eyebrows, “I will admit, it gives me an ear to the ground when it comes to gossip, which is what I’m sure you’re here about.”

“I’m afraid you know me too well,” Miss Fisher said impishly. She sat back in the visitor’s chair with her drink, and her face grew sober as she tried to think of the most expedient line of inquiry.

“I think I may have found another one like Dot.” Mac put down the case file and fixed her full attention on the investigator.

“Another not-quite-ghost?” Phryne nodded, and Mac raked one hand through her hair, dragging more strands loose. “Same inability to speak, same strength against the physical world?”

“Similar age, a young local girl, and,” she added, “the priest I spoke with said the exorcist noted no evidence of injury at all.” Evidence of injury was enormously valuable in the world of ghosts. Because they generally manifested quite shortly after death, they would almost always carry with them a representation of their deathblow. People who died of sickness would look withered and weak, those who died violently would show their wounds readily.

“That would make two young, healthy women who mysteriously passed away with no evidence of how,” Mac grumbled. “Three if you take my colleague at Pathology up on his ranting.”

“Three?” Now Phryne’s face had gone grim. “Is that what they needed Father Jack for today?”

“No, they were calling for him the other day, but Father Martin from the Catholic church had an opening first. Today is a run-of-the-mill bereavement,” Mac said. “And how do you know Father Jack? You’ve not been in town that long.”

“We met over a demon-induced head injury.”

“As one does,” said Mac dryly, and took another drink. “Well, you’ve made the right connection. By all accounts, he’s very good. Clever on his feet, and more humane than a good passel of the charlatans around here.” She set the tumbler down and rose, shaking out her sleeves. “You’ll be wanting to see the post-mortem, I expect.” It wasn’t a question, and Phryne nodded eagerly as Mac opened her desk drawer. “I have this for two more hours before it needs to be returned to Pathology. Doctor Harris wanted me to see if it could have been ‘female trouble’ that killed her, and it definitively was not.”

The buff-colored envelope was passed over the desk, and the two women lapsed into silence. Outside the office, traffic whirred and pedestrians shouted, and from the other side of the door there was the unmistakable patter and chatter of quiet men diligently tending to the dead and the diseases that killed them. Phryne paged through the report with impatience, flipping back and forth between sheets with a growing undercurrent of irritation. Mac sat back down quietly, contemplating her drink and observing her friend.

“I know what you’re looking for.”

“Mac…”

“It’s not her. She’s far too young, and I checked myself, she doesn't have any of Janey's birthmarks. You know I would have told you.”

“Mac,” Phryne said again, and her voice held a pleading note that surprised her.

“I know you’re looking for any sign, Phryne,” said her friend. “But I am positive that body is not your sister’s, and that the spirit they banished wasn’t either. So please, trust me.” She watched as Phryne slumped back in the chair, accepting her words, but still defiantly flipping the pages. “It’s not her. For right now, though, Dot needs you, and that will need to be enough.”

“I’m not giving up,” the dark-haired woman replied.

“Nobody said anything about that,” Mac rolled her eyes. “But, if you give me my file back now, you can follow me dutifully and politely down to Pathology while I return it, and you won’t even have to pick the lock to get in.” The two friends grinned mischievously at each other, and Phryne handed back the file. She hadn’t yet had a chance to take a good snoop around the morgue.

“Very well then,” Phryne quipped. “Lead on, MacMillan.”


	6. Chapter 6

The following evening saw Miss Fisher back at her own house, curled catlike in a chair with a fascinating report she had ‘liberated’ from the Pathology department, along with several reference books and a tray full of sandwiches supplied by Mrs. Butler. The accompanying drink was a Mr. Butler specialty, something with a hint of lemonade along with the gin. Dot was haunting the window seat with a piece of embroidery hovering in front of her, and the gramophone was playing quietly. Phryne was looking for a possible disease of the mind that could kill, but would not leave distinct physical markers, wondering if Dot’s consciousness could have been affected by such a thing. But it was a long stretch. One glance at the figure in sedate sweater and oatmeal linen skirt, embroidering clusters of lazy-daisy stitches into the edges of a slip, a peaceful calm on her face, and Miss Fisher became convinced again that Dot’s affliction was not one of mental or spiritual distraction. The record wound down; quiet settled into the parlor.

“Dot,” she said, and the young woman looked up, still holding her needle, “would you care to pick a record?” Dot nodded eagerly and laid down her project, floating across the room to the shelf where the music was kept. But as she was examining the shelf with her focus directed entirely on moving the records sleeve by sleeve, there was a startlingly loud knock at the door. Both Dot and Miss Fisher jumped. Mr. Butler glided from the rear of the house, ready to turn whoever it was away with a stern “not at home to visitors,” but Miss Fisher’s attention was diverted by Dot. When the ghost had stepped backwards, she had accidentally passed through the table on which the sandwiches were sitting. She was standing on the opposite side of the table with a shocked look on her face, smacking her insubstantial lips. “Dot?” But before Miss Fisher could form her question, the visitors burst through the door to accost the pair.

“Miss Fisher!” The lined face of the gravedigger she had met the previous day was pale in the low light, and his friend was standing, unnerved and trying not show it, in the doorway. “Miss Fisher, you’re needed at the Fitzroy Star.”

“Bert, was it?” She wondered, fleetingly, what could have startled a pair of diggers like this so badly. Mr. Butler’s face had shifted into a perturbed one that was usually only on display shortly before he pulled out the cricket bat. Mrs. Butler had bustled out from her parlor, tightening the knot on her blue floral wrapper. “What’s going on you two?”

“Your fella,” Cec piped up from the door. “That Clayton bloke. He’s up at the Fitzroy Star talking bedevilment and nonsense. He said to fetch Phryne a few times, and we knew there weren’t that many of ya, so we came to call on you before something goes off with ‘im.”

“Ashford Clayton?”

“E’s the one,” Bert confirmed. “We both think he’s been dabbling in more than gin tonight. Showin’ the signs, you know. Eyes gone whacko, hair crawling when you get near, feeling like a storm rolling in with all the fizz on him. We tried to drag him off but he bolted inside and the doorman didn’t seem amenable.” Bert brushed down his arms with a shudder, as if trying to shake off invisible bugs.

“Anything besides him talking like he’s channeling?” Phryne’s mind was whirring, even colored as it was with irritation that Clayton would be proclaiming an affiliation with her. Cec shook his head.

“Few plates thrown around, drinks spilt. Regular barney, except you couldn’t see who was doing it, according to the fella leaving.” Cec was catching his breath now, and Phryne wondered at what he wasn’t saying. But if there really was a possession taking place at the hotel, she could interrogate the man on the way.

“Let me fetch my things and we’ll go.” She strode upstairs, quelling a grumble in her chest with the thought of Dot haunting the obnoxious Ashford as penance for getting himself mixed up with her work. Given Bert and Cec’s description of the spirit, combined with the fact that it had made a small mess, terrified a few people and buggered off probably meant it wasn’t a demonic entity at all. Demons were generally either supremely subtle, or catastrophic. Smashing the crockery and tipping pot plants over onto the bartender was the hallmark of a digger on his way out and getting one last jab at the bar where he owed his tab. A demon would have barred the door and started systematically possessing people who had drunk from a certain cursed glass or were particularly notorious hypocrites – demons were terrifying and powerful, but quite rare. Add to that the evidence of the location, The Fitzroy Star having drinks and dancing, with cards in the back for those with the money to buy their way in. It was nicer than the Green Mill, but still veered from respectability once the sun went down, which made a sozzled, bar fighting ghost even more likely. Mrs. Butler followed her up.

“Anything I can help with Miss?”

“No, thank you Mrs. B,” she replied. “I have my bag all packed and I just need to change into something with pockets.”

“Very well, Miss,” Aurelia said. “I’ll keep an eye on the door while you’re out. My pistol is in my dressing gown if anyone else feels like visiting.” She patted the pocket of the weathered robe, and Phryne smiled.

“I don’t think it’s likely, but I appreciate that I’m in safe hands, Mrs. B.” The older woman nodded, silvering hair glimmering in the evening light, and made her way back downstairs to guard the way with a watchful, if benign-looking, glare. Phryne donned what Mrs. B referred to as her burgling clothes – dark trousers and coat, linen blouse, a black cap and low-heeled shoes.

“Right then,” she said. “Come along, you two, I’ll drive. Dot?” The girl was still standing in the middle of the sandwich tray, stuck to the spot in the parlor. “Dot? Coming?” She jumped at that, gave a quick peep of a whistle, and popped out of existence for a moment, reforming in the entry with her hat and coat on. “Onward, to the Fitzroy Star!” said Miss Fisher, and they were away, a motley, but competent crew, while Mrs. Butler watched benevolently from the stairs, her Mauser pistol only truly at rest once the door was firmly closed and locked. Aurelia retreated to the kitchen, where her husband had made her a cup of cocoa. She took it with an affectionate smile.

“I’ll stay up, my dear,” she said. “No telling who she’ll come home with, but I don’t want that atrocious Clayton fellow sullying the house if he’s been possessed.”

“Of course,” Mr. Butler said. He doted on his wife and had the usual sense of chivalry that any good husband ought. But between the two of them, only one had done War work that involved lettered and numbered agencies with codenames and ciphering, and it was not he. “Not to worry about the muddy carpet from the diggers’ boots, I’ve dabbed it down, and anything remaining I can cope with in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she said, planting a kiss on his balding head. “Goodnight Tobias.”

\---

The Fitzroy Star was a hotbed of activity, despite the possibility of a lurking demon. The noise of jazz, illicit drinking, and nominally wealthy peacocks losing at cards was enough to convince Phryne that whatever mess the spirit had made had probably already been cleaned up. Dot politely absented herself after seeing Bert and Cec from the car and crossing herself twice – clearly, it was not the sort of place she preferred to be seen, or seen in, for that matter. Phryne followed Bert and Cec around to a side door, where a looming figure stood in the doorway, barring access by sheer force of personality, backed up by a musculature that Phryne would have classified as positively Rococo in its extravagance. She paused for a moment to admire, and the man stepped out of the shadows.

“You are here for cards?” He cast a surprisingly sharp eye over the trio, and Phryne tried out her warmest professional smile.

“Not as such, although if that’s the price of admission, I’ll gladly pay. Someone said there was a possible troublemaker of the spiritual sort.” The door guardian (Phryne mentally dubbed him Janus), folded his arms, trying to take the measure of a clearly wealthy woman who would be slumming it with two grubby Communist gravediggers. “We thought perhaps, I might be a better fit for the atmosphere than a priest? These two didn’t think a collar would do much for the betting.”

“Got that right,” piped Bert. “I’ve got money on that horse Ring-a-Ding that’s due me, and the bloke in there is talking to mirrors and pot plants, so it’s either green fairy or blackest ghost he's imbibing.” Janus nodded at that. Phryne spared a moment to marvel. Bert was masterfully concealing how unnerved he was.

“That Clayton pipsqueak,” Janus rumbled. “Just old enough to get in, not old enough to know better.” He shifted on his feet, but didn’t step away. “I should not be letting you in. Exorcists aren’t good for business either.”

“Would it help if you told your boss I was here as Clayton’s… companion?” She hated the way it sounded in her mouth – as if she were merely an accessory to the man, but Janus seemed to understand.

“I will mark you in as such. But I cannot allow you to bring in any distinctive tools. If you are incompetent, at least you will be incompetent in a mild way that does not damage our upholstery.” Phryne gritted her teeth. But she had a knife in her garter, a sealing pendant as part of her hatpin, and a bar was an endless supply of ingredients if she should need salt, alcohol, or flammables for cleansing. She could make this work.

“Very well then,” she said, looking at the man as levelly as possible, given his height. “No trunk. Just let me have a look around and I’ll be subtle as a summer breeze.”

“I do not think anyone would ever call you subtle, ma’am, but please do come this way.” Janus ushered her, Bert, and Cec through the door and down a finely-paneled, but scuffed hallway. “This door,” he gestured, “the card games and band. “That door,” he said, pointing further down, “is where they send the losers to drink the edge off. I would guess the pipsqueak is in there.” She nodded, gesturing for the gravediggers to follow.

As she prowled down the hall, she felt her nerves tuning like a radio dial. The temperature was dropping minutely as they advanced, and the misplaced sensation of a breeze wafted over her cheeks. The inside of her nose tingled as she sniffed, and the tang of something herbal and forbidden rolled across her tongue. When her hand contacted the doorknob, there was a faint buzz of electricity that sped up her arm.

“You would think,” Bert grumbled, “they’d spring for better lighting in a place like this. Lamps all around and it’s come over dusk in here.” Phryne steeled herself. The world was being altered by whatever was on the other side of the heavy oak door, enough that even the gravediggers could notice it, which meant trouble. She could not afford to be casual about this, no matter what her feelings were about Ashford.

“Eyes open, you two,” she said. “Clayton might not take kindly to being interrupted, no matter what he’s playing with.” Cec nodded and stiffened his shoulders, snatching a heavy umbrella from an elephant’s-foot basket next to the door, while Bert pulled his red-ragger’s cross from his pocket. “And over the top we go,” she said, and twisted the knob of the door.


	7. Chapter 7

The bar on the other side of the door was deceptively peaceful. Apart from the faint noise of the band, which cut out when the door swung shut, there was almost no noise, just a faint electrical hum, and the tinkling of glass. The smell of bad beer hung in the air, and Cec screwed up his nose in disgust. The mirror behind the bar was shattered, and the remaining glassware was in pieces all over the floor, making a direct approach completely impossible. Clayton was sitting on a barstool, his back to the three of them. Phryne felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, like a cat sensing a thunderstorm. As they approached, he spun, and the look in his eyes was wild and foggy as he struggled to focus on them.

“Knew it would work,” he muttered, and Phryne felt a frisson of worry. “They keep their promises. They do, you just have to know how to handle them.”

“Clayton, whatever are you doing in here?” She eyed the young man and he tried to answer her, nearly falling off the barstool. “You’ve raised enough of a fuss trying to get my attention at my house. I thought I made myself clear.”

“Father Jack was there,” the young man said petulantly. “Father Jack got in the way. It was his fault, and you would have let me in, but he was there, so I had to try something different and he… he…” Clayton struggled for a moment, but whatever he was trying to communicate was lost to the swirl of resentful emotions that the priest had inspired.

“You call throwing crockery with ghost-hands flirting?” Bert snorted derisively, his pendant still twined through his fingers tightly. “You turned this whole place into a cut-rate haunted house!” Clayton didn’t seem to register anything the man had said. He fixed his bleared eyes on Miss Fisher instead, who was wishing very much for her gun at this particular moment.

“You’ll slum with red-raggers, but you won’t give me the time of day,” he whined. “Well, I’ve made a friend who can fix you – fix all that – he said he can give me what I want, easy, and I don’t have a thing to lose for it either.”

“I very much doubt that, Ashford.” Phryne kept her face as neutral as she could, but her mind was spinning. She needed more information, and she needed to keep that need a secret. “And I very much doubt Father Jack has as much access to me as you think.” The bait was thrown, and Ashford snapped it up.

“Oh no, Father Jack might be allowed in your house, but my friend is more powerful than some petty priest. Father Jack isn’t the boss of me, not anymore.” He spun on the barstool, throwing his head back to giggle at the ceiling, and Bert and Cec, subtly drew to opposite sides, leaving some space between them and allowing them to skirt along the wainscoting. Clayton didn’t seem to notice, but then, he didn’t seem to be noticing that his hair was beginning to stand on end in defiance of his pomade either. “My friend promised – you see, he promised that if I just signed one little contract, then he would help me win you, and here you are! He said he knew you well, it would be no trouble at all.” Phryne’s blood was running colder by the second.

“I think you might be mistaking me for a prize at a coconut stall, Ashford. You and your friend both, whoever he is.” But Clayton wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring at the ceiling again, and Phryne risked a quick flick of her eyes at the gravediggers, who were edging into position on either side of the room. Cec nodded, pointing behind the bar, where some of the cracks in the mirror were starting to glow. A faint inscribed shape was defining itself, and Phryne squinted, trying to read what name might be coming into view.

“He’s almost here, I wrote it all out for him just like he told me to,” Clayton grinned. But in turning to look back at Phryne, he noticed that Bert and Cec had moved. “You two aren’t going anywhere,” he snapped, and a pearlized light flashed around them. When it receded, both men found themselves immobilized inside matching sigils that mirrored the shape in the mirror that was manifesting itself. Phryne still couldn’t read the name, but Clayton’s ramblings had given her a few hints.

 _A being that offered him a contract,_ she thought. _That claimed to not want anything in return. That used sigils._ The letters around the edge of the shape in the mirror were Greek, it seemed, but she couldn’t read them yet, and she was running out of time. She ground her teeth. Not nearly enough information. It sounded like a Mephistophelean bargain, but Clayton’s interest in her was far too base. Mephistopheles offered deeply secret knowledge, not access to another's underthings. _He said he knew you well…_ “Clayton, what exactly are the terms of this bargain you made? I’d like to know what I’ve been volunteered for.”

“He’s a mighty President in Hell,” Clayton grinned, and his eyes were really starting to roll in his head now. “He could have given me one of his many legions to command, to cause all sorts of havoc. But my request was much more modest.”

 _A President, but not a Great President,_ she thought, _that narrows it down to the Ars Goetica._ She shook her head, trying to keep an unconcerned expression, but she could see her options narrowing. A demon, not a ghost, and one with an agenda, unfortunately. The doors around the room were closing, locking with clicks that sounded like the cocking of revolvers in the dead silence of the room. Ashton drew himself up to his full height, marveling at the same pearly light now crawling over his body. “Ominous,” she commented, “though not particularly original. I can’t say it makes me want to throw myself at your feet.”

“It will be better if you don’t resist,” came a voice, and this time, it was assuredly not Ashford Clayton’s petulant whine, but a strange tenor growl, coming from the broken bar mirror. Phryne looked up, expecting anything to come through the opening. Anything except…

“A bloody DOG?” Bert exclaimed, with a disdainful ferocity that was usually reserved for those who committed fouls in footy. “You sold your soul to Fido! You complete plonk, you’ve been banging your gums over a stray from the gutter.” And, sure enough, a monstrous but somewhat scruffy black dog was clambering its way out of the licking blue flames. Granted, this dog had wings that would outdo a vulture, and flaming eyes like the pits of damnation, but Phryne suppressed a grin all the same. She knew this one’s name. And, judging by the look on Ashford’s face, he was going to be too infuriated at Bert’s derision to pay attention to her for a good long moment. Plenty long enough. In a flash, she had whipped the hatpin out of her hair. It had a sealing amulet on the end, which wouldn’t do a thing to Glasya-Labolas, but it was made of iron, and the pin itself was silver with a steel core. She put her fingers in her mouth and blew a shrieking whistle. The demon’s head snapped around. She felt the rush of wind from its wings as it turned to face her, and she waggled the pin before hurling it like a knife thrower, to land with a thud in the far doorframe. Glasya couldn’t help itself. A pin like that in a doorway would block its power, allowing others to escape, and furthermore, Bert was right. Demon or not, the thing had the form, and therefore the impulses, of a dog and a griffin. A shiny stick was too good a temptation to ignore.

There was a deeply undignified yelp, and Clayton was bowled over by the summoned demon as it leapt for the hatpin. His concentration broken, the immobilization he had cast over the gravediggers dissipated, and both men lunged for him. Bert dove for the man’s knees, while Cec wound up with the umbrella like he was batting for the ashes. There was an audible crack when he connected with Clayton’s head. The young man dropped to the floor in a crumple of smeary clothes and 

Phryne only barely registered the scuffle. Her eyes were fixed on Glasya as it mouthed and worried at her hatpin, which had wedged itself firmly in the door. It clearly burnt every time the demon tried for it, but the relic was holding his attention. She threw herself behind the bar, dodging the broken glass as best she could, hunting for whatever could come to hand to seal the thing away. Her fingers fumbled. Her glove snagged and tore on the splintered woodwork. She could hear the furious snuffling of the demon, still trying to drag her hatpin out of the doorframe, to seal it back up, and being burned by the cold silver and iron. And then, a rush of relief. Her hand found the salt cellar, and she clamped onto it, dragging herself upright with her other hand. It was a large, ornate silver thing, with rearing horses on the lid, and she hurled it away, drawing the demon’s attention still further away from the two gravediggers who were now securing Clayton’s hands behind his back. She sprinted back around the bar and began dropping the salt in a smooth, unbroken line, starting at the wall. Ideally, she would have corralled the thing into a tight circle, but anything was better than an unshackled demon in a hotel full of people, no matter how disreputable and lacking in innocence they might be. Phryne poured as quickly as she could, spilling salt by smooth handfuls back and forth until she had drawn a thick boundary across one corner of the room, encompassing the door where Glasya was still fixated. Only then did she take a deep breath, and realize her hand was bleeding.

The bar was looking worse for wear, and a clean towel required some hunting. By the time she had bandaged herself up, Bert and Cec had secured their prisoner, and Glasya had given up worrying at the hatpin and was now pacing back and forth along the salt line. It snarled and flapped, but with Clayton incapacitated, it couldn’t speak in any human language, and with the salt all over the floor, it couldn’t dive back through its portal. But, by the same token, Phryne couldn’t leave the room, or the salt binding would be rendered useless, and she couldn’t banish the damn thing without any of her tools. As she mulled over ideas, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden pounding on the door behind her.

“Stay out,” she roared. “Unless you want to be eaten by a dog demon, just let me work!”

“Miss Fisher?” The voice was the priest’s. But before she do much more than look around in surprise, there was a splintering of wood as the lock gave way under the boot of Father Jack, followed closely behind by his acolyte Hugh, and a beaming Dot.


End file.
